


Perfect

by nupoxsi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Wives No Kids, Attempt at Humor, Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, Living Together, M/M, Protective Older Brothers, Romantic Friendship, Smooching, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nupoxsi/pseuds/nupoxsi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“I’ll be okay,” Alen promises, “don’t you trust me?”</em>
  <br/>
  <em>“I do, but…” Ivan sighs, and the air he blows hits the back of Alen’s neck, making him shudder involuntarily. “I don’t know if you should be living alone.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Hallo. You might (or might not) be wondering why have I written a fic of this pairing. Let me throw in some quotes:
> 
>  __ **Alen Halilovic:** “Rakitic helps me a lot. When I need something, I ask him and he solves it”.  
>  **Ivan Rakitic:** “He’s a very young lad, so I’m trying to make things more comfortable for him. It’s a big change for me too, but I’m trying to be like his big brother.”
> 
> I ship these two pretty hard, and well, I’ve been waiting for someone to write something based on their new relationship and how Alen looks up to Ivan and how Ivan helps him and ugh. Apparently I don’t have patience to wait for someone to write about it so I decided that I would try to write a ficlet. None of the following is true, it’s a lie, it never happened.  
> (At least not that I’m aware of)
> 
> This work is unbeta’d, so all grammar mistakes and typos are my own.  
> Enjoy!

“Do you have my number?” Ivan asks with concern, gaze shifting from Alen to the door at his back.

“We often text when we’re not together,” Alen reminds him with a grin plastered in his face. “So yes, Ivan, I’ve got your house’s number and both of your mobile phones.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

In what’s passed of day Ivan has asked that question so many times that Alen realises he’s taking too seriously the whole big brother thing. Alen has a little brother himself, and he’s never treated him the way Ivan does. Not that it bothers him, though, he actually thinks it’s kind of cute. Ever since Ivan signed for Barcelona he let Alen stay at his place, convinced it would be the best for the two of them. Plus, learning Spanish would be easier for Alen if Ivan was there to help him. However, after almost two months of being a guest in Ivan’s place, he decided it was time for him to move out to his own place. He rented a loft a week ago and after he’s gotten all of his stuff there and bought the furniture, he’s ready to move in.

The small wrinkles forming on Ivan’s forehead only encourage Alen to take a step forward and wrap his arms around the taller man’s torso. It’s the third hug he gives him that day, and he guesses it isn’t about to be the last one. Ivan is soon returning the hug, looping his strong arms around Alen’s slender shoulders and keeping him close to his chest.

“I’ll be okay,” Alen promises, “don’t you trust me?”

“I do, but…” Ivan sighs, and the air he blows hits the back of Alen’s neck, making him shudder involuntarily. “I don’t know if you should be living alone.”

“I won’t be. Not entirely.”

Ivan rubs a hand over Alen’s back. “Yeah?”

“I mean, yeah, I’ll be living by myself in here, but we both know that I’ll spend most of the time in training and over at your apartment the times in which you aren’t taking me out to travel around the city, don’t you think?”

“I still think you could stay a couple weeks more at my place,” Ivan admits, squeezing Alen in his arms. “Now there won’t be more video games nights until three AM.”

Alen laughs. “Sleeping at three AM and waking up at seven isn’t that healthy, Ivan.”

“It is when you take a three hours nap in the afternoon.”

“You have a point,” Alen confesses with a little chuckle. “Don’t worry, I’ll be just fine.”

Alen doesn’t need to look at Ivan to know he’s smiling. “We’ll see.”

 

* * *

 

“Ivan?”

There’s a yawn coming from the other side of the line, and Alen quickly realises Ivan was taking his common post-training nap.

“Hi,” he says, voice groggy and deep. “What’s wrong?”

“I, uhm…”

Alen’s gaze drops to the mess he’s made out of the kitchen. Somehow, the art of boiling water to make pasta became a total mess when he told himself he could prepare a Napoli sauce and a lettuce salad at the same time. There’s tomato sauce all over the place, uncooked farfalle spread over the floor and counter, all kinds of seasonings mixing with the tomato sauce he dropped. At least the lettuce is safe as it rests on vinegar, but he can’t live on lettuce. What he feels sorry about the most, though, is the now big black stain on one of the new frypans he’d bought.

“Alen?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he apologises, wiping the sweat from his damp forehead with a towel. “Can you come over?”

There’s a small pause before Ivan chuckles on the other line. “Give me five.”

With a soft hum, Alen hungs up. He places the phone on a table and strides off to search for a mop. Everything in the place is new and he barely knows where he’s standing on, but after a good amount of time moving back and forth his loft, Alen manages to gather some cleaning products as well as two mops and several dishtowels.

The situation is pretty stupid, actually, he knows that. He’s completely capable of cleaning the mess by his own, he’s old enough to take care of these kind of things. Tomato sauce and uncooked pasta decorating his new carpeted floor? That’s nothing compared to the time Alen tried to bake two cheese stuffed breads and nearly burned the whole building down. He’s got quite an historial on failed attempts at cooking, but he’s prepared pasta by himself a handful of times already. Sometimes luck simply isn’t on his side.

It isn’t long until there’s a knock on his front door and Alen is opening the door to a smiling Ivan.

He greets Ivan with a warm hug, and all Alen can breathe is his cologne. “Hi there,” Ivan whispers as he tangles his fingers on Alen’s loosen hair. “What happened?”

“Okay, don’t get mad at me,” Alen starts, letting go of Ivan’s torso to take a step back. “I was trying to cook lunch, and one thing led to the other, so just—” He motions Ivan to follow him into the kitchen, and stops right before Ivan. “Look for yourself.”

Ivan stays still for a moment. His blue eyes seem to be scanning the place, looking from one corner of the kitchen to the other. Alen feels his cheek heating up momentarily, slightly embarrassed of himself for making such a chaos out of his new loft. Nonetheless, instead of an angry scolding by Ivan, all Alen gets in reply is some chuckles, their eyes meeting at the next second.

“Okay,” he says, taking two steps closer at Alen. His hand falls on his shoulder, and squeezes it lightly. “I’m not even going to ask how this happened.”

“Oh, please don’t,” Alen begged.

“Relax, Alen.” Another squeeze. “I’m glad you called me.”

“You are? Seriously?”

Ivan smiles and Alen feels he’s staring at the sun for the first time. It’s always like that, a warm feeling spreading across his chest that makes him feel dumb, because he realises he could stare all day at Ivan’s face and never get tired. Ivan radiates happiness, and Alen can’t help but be grateful to be next to him and receive all the joy to himself.

“Yeah, seriously,” Ivan affirms and pulls him closer, his arm a snake that encircles Alen’s shoulders and presses him to his side. “So what do you say we clean up the kitchen and then I take you out for lunch?”

Alen grimaces. “I’m not letting—”

“Of course you’re letting me.”

“But—”

“There are no buts,” Ivan chaims in, ruffling his golden locks with his free hand. “Since you were cooking pasta, I’ll ask Leo what’s the best Italian ristorante in Barcelona and we’ll go. No complains.”

Alen wants to say something, a bit embarrassed at how kind Ivan can be. He tries not to let it show in his face, but he feels his muscles flexing in different ways and all of the sudden his cheeks are burning up as he’s frowning comically at Ivan.

“You’re cute when you blush,” Ivan comments, and the comment simply makes Alen’s face go from pink to bright red. Ivan simply laughs sweetly at him. “Come on, let’s clean the kitchen.”

 

* * *

 

 

Alen has ran about ten laps and he’s all sweaty under the hot summer sun. Joan drops at his side, trying to catch his breath after finishing running his own laps.

“Jesus fuck, tío,” Joan breathes, throwing his head back to cover from the sunlight. “You should get some sunscreen on if you don’t want to get sunburnt.”

“I believe I can take a little sun, Joan.”

He chuckles. “Just a recommendation.”

The rest of his teammates are divided into two groups, those who are practicing free kicks and the others who are working on the sides, running. There is also a smaller group that consists of only four players who arrived late to the training pitch and are only beginning to warm up now. Alen stares at no group in particular, only lets his eyes wander over his surroundings. In less than five minutes he’ll have to stand up and decide whether he wants to practice free kicks or run a couple of more laps before the Míster calls them up into two different teams for the training match.

“Hey, Joan, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, speak up.”

“Could you translate something for me?” Alen asks, trying to look away in order to prevent from flushing in front of his new teammate. Anyhow, when he glances back at Joan, he find him nodding eagerly with an incredulous smirk on his face. “And teach me how to pronounce it, of course.”

“Of course, Alen. What is it?”

“Well…” He takes a deep breath, gathering the courage to speak the words that have been in his mind ever since Ivan took him into his house and promised he’d be just like a brother. “ _I’m thankful for everything you’ve done for me, and I hope I can someday return the favour_. That’s what I want to say.”

Joan makes a face, yet he doesn’t pick on Alen nor he begins to ask who does he want to say that to.

“Fine,” he agrees with a shrug. “Just repeat after me, okay?”

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m not going to play this stupid game anymore,” Alen exclaims huffily, tossing the control away.

“That’s what you’ve said all the other times, yet you never fail on convincing me to play it.”

He looks at Ivan only to find him staring back at him with those blue eyes and big smile that often make Alen’s pulse raise considerably. “You’re always lucky,” he tries to explain, searching for one of the couch’s little pillows to hug it against his chest. “I always win when I play with my little brother.”

“Maybe he isn’t as good as me when it comes to Mario Kart,” Ivan says happily as he stands from the couch and only stops in his way to the kitchen to ruffle Alen’s golden hair. “But don’t worry, you always beat my ass at PES, so I guess it’s only fair.”

Alen smiles. “I guess.”

His response what all Ivan was waiting to continue down his path to the kitchen, where he opens the fridge’s door and grabs a carton of orange juice. He doesn’t drink directly from the carton, which always amazes Alen. He closes the door and reaches for a glass from the cupboard above the sink, pours probably half a glass and drinks it up in no time. Alen stares at him with interest, rubbing anxiously the velvet cover of the cushion as he thinks of a way of saying the words he’s been wanting to. It isn’t as if deep conversations are odd for them, Alen recalls opening himself up to him one day when they both saw the sunrise from the balcony of Ivan’s apartment, and Ivan also told him things he’d never told anyone before. They trust each other, so Alen sees no reason to be nervous at all.

Well, at least not until Ivan is taking his shirt off and revealing his naked chest and arms.

Not that Ivan is the most muscular man in the world, and it certainly isn’t the first time Alen gets that sight, but there’s something about the way Ivan is shaped and the numerous tattoos that cover his arms that make the difference, at least for Alen. He doesn’t miss the chance to take one of those clever glances that’d end up archived in his head for a long time. And he does it just in time, because then Ivan is turning around with both the carton of orange juice and the empty glass and walking back to where Alen is sat.

“Want some?” He offers, pouring a glass full of it before Alen gets the chance to reply.

“Thanks,” Alen says as he accepts it gracefully, letting the cushion fall on his lap and taking the glass with both hands.

“I’m going to take a shower now,” Ivan announces as he runs a hand through his golden locks. “You can shower in the guest bathroom if you want, I was thinking we could go for ice cream later.”

“Sure.” Alen smiles before emptying the orange juice from only a sip, handing back the empty glass at Ivan. The palms of his hands start to turn cold, and not precisely for the cold drink he held an instant ago. He decides that he has to speak before Ivan stands up, because if he keeps on waiting, he’ll probably lose all the courage he’s gathered. “Hey, Ivan?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been asking Joan to help me a bit with my Spanish. Well, _unexisting_  Spanish,” he corrects. “He isn’t you, that’s obvious, but I’ve been learning little words here and there.”

He instantly smiles at Alen’s words, and pours some more juice into the glass. There’s, evidently, a proud expression on Ivan’s face, and there’s another hint of anxiety growing in Alen’s insides. What if he screws up in the pronunciation? That’s what he likes about practicing his spanish with Ivan, he usually helps him and does not judge him for making common mistakes like Joan did.

“ _Sé que aparento ser muy mono, pero en realidad me encanta la polla_.”

Alen says it all quickly, yet he doesn’t mess up any of the words. He speaks just as he’s practiced with Joan, and he’s proud at how little his accent is noticeable. And Alen is waiting for some kind of positive response from Ivan, a smile, a pat on the shoulder, something along those lines, but then Ivan is choking on the orange juice he’s just drank.

“Ivan!?”

Alen quickly rushes to his side, and pats the center of his back with an open palm. Ivan is coughing harshly and spitting the remains of juice in his mouth, gaining his composure back.

“Sorry, I just—”

“Are you okay?” Alen hurries to ask, rubbing circles on his back. “Do you want some more juice? Should I get you water?”

“No, I’m okay, but—” He shakes his head, and then one of his hands is placed over Alen’s forearm. “What did you just say?”

“T-that, _sé que aparento ser muy mono, pero en realidad me encanta la polla_ ,” he repeats, voice lower than before now that they’re closer. “I mean it.”

Ivan narrows his eyes in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes,” Alen confesses, feeling his cheeks heating up. “I thought you’d noticed it already.”

“Would you mind repeating it in English?”

Alen feels nervous again. “Was my Spanish that bad? I’m sorry, I—”

“No, no,” he stops him, caressing his arm with small touches. “It was actually quite good, I just doubt you understood the meaning of those words.”

“I, uhm… I just wanted to say thank you for everything you’ve done for me in these months, and that I hope I can return the favour in the future,” Alen says, gaze fixed on the carpet of the floor. “And yes, I truly mean it.”

“You said Joan told you the translation to your words, right?” Ivan inquires, and Alen simply nods. “Well, he’s a total dick.”

His eyes close. “I didn’t say that, did I?”

Ivan laughs, throwing an arm around Alen’s shoulders and pulling him in. “No.”

“What did I say?”

“You want literal translation?”

“I feel I am going to regret this, but yes.”

“Alright.” Ivan laughs again, and he moves a little only so Alen fits perfectly between his body and the back of the couch. Their bodies are practically pressed together, and Ivan’s got no shirt on, but said closeness does not seem to bother the older croatian much. “You said _‘I know I seem to be very cute, but I actually love dick.’_ ”

If one could die of embarrassment, Alen would die right in that moment. His face must be red as a tomato, and even his ears feel hot. It’s a struggle to move his arms in such a confined place, but Alen eventually manages to bring his hands up to cover up his face.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “I’m stupid.”

Ivan laughs under his breath. “ _No eres tonto,_ ” he says in perfect Spanish, and surprisingly enough, Alen is able to understand it. “Joan was just teasing you.”

“Still.”

“Alen…” Ivan’s voice is harmonious, like a melody Alen will never get tired of listening. He feels a warm hand wrap around his wrist and pull at his hand gingerly. “Let me see your face. It’s okay,” he says, and it motivates Alen to uncover his face. A chuckle. “God, you’re completely red. It’s cute.”

Alen frowns and covers his face again. “I hate Joan.”

“Hey, come on,” Ivan tries again, hand circling both his wrists. “If you take your hands off I promise I’ll give you something back.”

“Ice cream?”

“Won’t tell.”

Curiosity finds its way into Alen and soon he sees himself retrieving both of his hands to reveal his flushed face once more. Ivan’s face is close to his, a small grin and those blue eyes that are similar to his own. Alen is expecting for some kind of words, for a ‘vanilla or chocolate’ kind of question even if Ivan already knows he prefers strawberry ice cream. Instead, he feels the Earth stops moving when Ivan’s face simply grows closer and closer. There’s no time for him to panic properly over Ivan’s proximity, because before he gets the chance to say a word, Ivan’s lips are pressing lightly over his own.

It’s somewhat of a shock, he has to admit, but he can’t be happier. Alen doesn’t know where to put his hands and his heart is beating too fast. Ivan’s lips are soft against his own, and they move slowly, guiding Alen through the kiss. It doesn’t last long, they break apart and Alen feels his face heating up as he stares at the older Croatian. That’s all they do for a moment, both with parted lips and breathing through their mouths, eyes locking together as if having a conversation without needing any words.

Ivan smiles at him first, and Alen finds himself smiling too. It’s some sort of nonverbal communication, an ‘everything is okay’ between them that eases any possible doubt in Alen’s mind.

“Still want to get out for that ice cream?”

“Of course,” Alen replies a bit shyly, eyes drifting from Ivan’s eyes to his lips. “But hey, Ivan?”

“Yes?”

Alen leans in and places his mouth over Ivan’s, kissing him again. It’s merely a peck, but when he withdraws he can see the smile on his face is wider now.

“ _Gràcies_ ,” Alen says, doing his best to imitate the accent. “ _Per tot_ , and for _this_.”

Ivan laughs. “Someone had to make the first step, right?” He brushes away the locks of hair that are trying to get into his eyes. “And you didn’t tell me you were also learning Catalan.”

“I try.”

“We should take classes together,” Ivan suggests, untangling his arms from Alen’s body and going to his feet. “I’ll take a quick shower and then we’ll go get some ice cream.”

“Sounds perfect,” Alen says as he sits on the couch.

With long steps, Ivan starts walking towards the bedroom, but just before enters it, he stops. “And Alen?” His voice caughts Alen’s attention, and he immediately looks for his eyes in the room. “You are truly cute.”

Alen hears his chuckles fading as he gets into the other room.

 


End file.
